Lady of the Shieldarm
by Lessien Ancalimon
Summary: For Éowyn death was easy, surviving on the other hand, proved to be the greatest challenge of her life. The road back from the Darkness was longer and harder than she ever imagined. Did she possess the strength and courage to step back into the Light?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, paced the length of her cold chamber; fear clenching her heart in a fist of ice. Ever faster, she paced her hands slick with sweat, traveling restlessly to her side seeking a blade that was not there.

Her breath rasped harshly from her lungs as she struggled for control, but all she felt was growing panic. How she longed to lash out, to rail against the bars of the cage swiftly closing in about her.

"You would do wise to speak me fair, Éowyn, Éomund-daughter." Wormtongue's words again hissed through her mind.

"Speak you fair? Snake! Get thee from my sight and take your poisonous tongue with you!" she had cried, spitting on him full in the face.

Gríma Wormtongue's eyes narrowed dangerously at that and for the first time Éowyn felt true fear as he raised a pale hand to his cheek to wipe away the spittle. "That was ill done, Lady. Be not so spiteful, I warn you. Your brother will not come to your aid for he is locked in irons and held in your uncle's deepest dungeon."

"Éomer, imprisoned—why?"

"For treason! He is a rebel and a traitor to the king and to the Mark. He gainsaid your uncle's commands."

"Nay, never—you lie!"

"Does it matter?" Gríma laughed a chilling sound. "Théoden King believes it sooth for I tell him it is so. Because the king believes, none dare gainsay; and so it _is_ truth."

"My Uncle will never agree to this!"

Wormtongue's laughter sounded once again, harsh and grating. "Will he not? I think so. With his son and heir dead and newly buried, his sister-son revealed for the rebel he is; Théoden King needs sorely to rejoice in something—anything, as do all the good folk of the Mark; what better than to rejoice in a wedding?"

Éowyn shivered with revulsion. "Say whatever you will, worm, you shall never have me. Sooner would I fall on my own blade than suffer your touch."

Gríma reached out to caress her cheek. When she jerked her head away, cruel fingers gripped her jaw, bruising flesh as he forced her eyes to his. "No blade of _steel _shall pierce such tender flesh, on that you may count."

Wormtongue's head snapped back as Éowyn's hand connected with his face in a ringing slap. Turning, she fled the length of the corridor gaining the tenuous safety of her ever-shrinking bower, where she paced the floor and waited for the guards to come for her, for come they would, as all now did Wormtongue's bidding—in the name of Théoden King.

"My Lady, the King requires your presence."

Éowyn froze, "So, it comes." she mused bitterly. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face the guard and was surprised to see Háma, Captain of the Guard himself, sent to fetch her.

"My Lady, make haste. Go now to the king strangers approach and with them Gandalf Greyhame. I must go to meet them."

"Gandalf," Éowyn gasped, a spark of hope igniting in her breast.

"Aye, and with him the strangest trio ever seen in the Mark, but I may say no more for I must hasten back to my post at the doors."

Éowyn nodded and sped for the hall. Théoden sat bowed on his throne, seemingly unaware of his surroundings, only a handful of guards in attendance.

"Uncle?" Éowyn knelt at the old man's side, gently raising him to sit straighter in his chair. Slowly the king turned his head, a dim smile touching his lips and he patted her hand.

"Éowyn, it is good that you come. I have news for you that should gladden your heart. I have found for you at last a husband, a man worthy of my sister-daughter."

Éowyn froze, catching Wormtongue out of the corner of her eye as he entered the hall to take his customary seat at the feet of his liege lord. "We will speak on this later, Uncle. Right now we must welcome our guests." Smoothly she rose to her feet, taking her place behind the king's chair.

At the far end of the hall, the doors were flung wide and four figures stood silhouetted briefly in the grey light of day. They were hidden again as the doors swung shut. Éowyn found herself holding her breath until the strangers were within range of the fire pit. As they came into the light, her jaw nearly dropped in amazement. Only by the strongest force of will did she maintain her aura of cool detachment.

Gandalf Greyhame was known to her, but he seemed somehow changed since she had last seen him long months past. He still walked, bent with age, swathed in grey raiment, but a light now shone about him. It was then she realized his hair and beard had gone completely white. Now what could turn a wizard's hair pure white? She suppressed a shiver and preferred not to know.

As the wizard passed into the light, Éowyn could not prevent the gasp that slipped from her. He was leaning on the arm of a tall stranger. Never before had she seen one such as this. An ancient memory of her father's, fathers sprang to life and now glided down the hall on silent feet. Tall he was and willowy as a reed though well knit. Long hair fell in a fall of gold, braided back at the temples to reveal ears delicately pointed. His face was unearthly fair, so much so that it all but pained her to look upon him and though while seemingly young, his eyes held knowledge, wisdom, and a weight of years belied by his youthful mien.

Beside him walked a squat bearded figure garbed in leather armor and to the wizard's right paced a man, tall and weathered, but with a noble bearing and stern demeanor. Grimly silent, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, sister-daughter of Théoden King stood as a sentinel as events unfolded in that hall that would change the course of her life for all time.

x x x x x


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

How strange life was, how fickle fate. Naught but an hour earlier, Éowyn believed her Doom upon her and her hand—her very life, body and soul, given—nay cast away irrevocably to Gríma son of Gálmód. Yet now, by the grace of a wizard and three strangers to the Mark all had changed; Théoden King restored, Éomer released, Wormtongue exposed for the traitor he was and exiled leaving Éowyn free—free!

Numb she felt and strangely detached as one awoken too abruptly from deep slumber. She waited on the king and his guests but could only stare mutely at those about her. She prayed her wits would soon return before anyone's attention fell on her.

Her eyes traveled to the Dwarf as he belched loudly, wiping his lips with his beard. Now here was one she felt comfortable with, despite the fact she had never met a Dwarf before. Yet his ways and speech were familiar and comforting in their coarse, earthy manner. The others she simply could not fathom.

That she was grateful to Gandalf and the change he had wrought in her uncle went without saying; but the wizard came on the winds of change. At last, the Rohirrim stirred to action against Saruman, and if she did not think fast, she would find herself left in the dust of their passing.

Now that she was free of Wormtongue, she would suffer none to cage or restrain her again. She would choose her own course now. At last, she deemed, came the hour of the shieldmaiden. When she might join her kinsman and win renown in brave deeds and battle.

Again, her eyes lingered on the Elf and Dúnedan. Two more different in looks and demeanor, one would be hard pressed to find; and yet, they were strangely similar.

The Elf, silent and grave, studied all about him, his eyes deep and unfathomable. Every gesture bespoke grace and control. He was sleek as a newly forged blade and just as deadly—of that she had no doubt. She wondered what such a being of light and perfection made of her people and their rough ways.

The Dúnedan—could one believe he was truly Isildur's heir—was also the epitome of control and strength. However, an air of wildness clung to him that spoke of power barely restrained. He charged the air with the very vitality of his presence and fair took her breath away. How she would love to see this one unfettered in battle. How noble and fierce, how valiant and strong, how—Éowyn's heart hammered in her breast. Yes, here was such a one she would be proud to call her Lord. One to whom she would be proud to bind herself.

The king now rose, startling Éowyn from her reverie. Swiftly she poured wine and came forward. "Ferthu Théoden hál," she said. "Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour; health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

Théoden drank and she dutifully proffered the cup to the guests. The Dwarf winked at her as she took back the cup, nearly startling a smile from her. When she came to the Elf, he inclined his head and she found herself glancing away from his unnerving eyes, as if from too bright a light. Her reaction seemed to amuse him and a soft smile graced his lips. Oddly enough, Éowyn took no offence; after all, it was not every day one looked a living legend in the eye.

As she stood before Aragorn, she paused suddenly and looked upon him with shining eyes. He looked down upon her and smiled and her knees went weak. As he took the cup, his hands met hers and she trembled at the touch. "Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn!" she said breathlessly. "Hail Lady of Rohan!" he replied but his face was now troubled, the smile fading from his lips.

"Behold! I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding," said Théoden, "to someone I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place. Which of you will stay?"

Silence fell.

"Is there none whom you would name; in whom do my people trust?"

"In the House of Eorl." answered Háma proudly.

"But Éomer I cannot spare, and he is last of that House."

"I said not Éomer," answered Háma. "Nor is he the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted, and all love her."

Éowyn's heart lurched, as yet again the gleam of gilded bars flashed before her mind's eye. She felt as if a heavy yoke settled about her shoulders as she bowed her head and knelt dutifully before her king. Though the shadow of despair filled her heart once more, she received from Théoden's hand a sword and corselet.

"Farewell sister-daughter!" said Théoden. "Mayhap we shall return to the Golden Hall but if we fail, lead our people to Dunharrow there may they long defend themselves."

"Speak not so!" she answered. "A year shall I endure for every day that passes until you return." Though she spoke to her uncle, her eyes strayed to Aragorn who stood nearby.

"The King shall come again," he said. "Fear not."

Alone Éowyn stood before the doors of Meduseld. She stood straight and proud in her mail coat, her sword upright before her, the pommel chill against her skin. Silently she watched the company pass away towards the gate.

"Ferthu Théoden hál." she whispered. Éowyn's breath caught as one man turned as if hearing her words. The keen grey eyes of Aragorn son of Arathorn met hers across the court. Long they held each other's eyes, weighing the other's heart and mind. However, Aragorn it was who at last broke the glance. The wind whipped in that high place, knifing through the Lady of Rohan's soul, ripping it to shreds.

x x x x x


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

Éowyn slung the last sack of grain onto the pile. Wiping an arm across her brow, she turned to survey her work.

Before her, across the green stretches of the Firienfield, tents, pavilions, and makeshift storehouses had been hastily erected. Filling her lungs with crisp mountain air, she walked across the grass and came to a wide, flat rock. Below her the road uncoiled like a serpent; the stone Púkel-men, ever vigilant in their watch, guarding every loop as the road wound down to the valley. Twilight fell as campfires sparked to life like fireflies in the valley below.

Five days prior the king had ridden forth to war. Word came swiftly to Edoras of the battle at Helm's Deep. Like a caged bird, Éowyn paced and fretted over her confinement. She was the daughter of kings, not a warden of the young, infirm and the elderly. Surely, she was born for greater deeds than playing nursemaid to her people. Still, Théoden King's will would prevail.

Three days prior, word came of the king's victory at the Hornburg and for a moment Éowyn's spirits lifted only to be dashed again by the curt missive: "We ride for Isengard. Evacuate all to Dunharrow immediately. Word has gone out across the Mark, all men and boys strong enough to bear arms are to muster in Edoras. Await me at Dunharrow."

All men and boys strong enough to bear arms; was her arm not strong? Was she not trained in the ways of war? Could she not wield a sword—better even than a greenling? Why did Théoden King not call _her_ to arms? Why must she remain to shepherd the flocks of the ancient and infirm?

Over the last three days, she had had much time for thinking despite her toil, and so she bent her thought to her plight. Before leaving Edoras she located mail and armor, shield and helm in the armory. Her gear, stowed away in a trunk in her tent, lay waiting the king's arrival, as did her horse in the picket lines below.

Tuned to a fever pitch, she chafed at the tedium of watching and waiting. Only thoughts of Aragorn kept her sane. The tales of his bravery and prowess in battle played on the lips of many; what she would have given to see him ride forth from the Hornburg at Théoden King's side. What a proud sight!

Her heart was lost and well she knew it; but, unless she was sorely mistaken, the Dúnadan had marked her, and marked her well. His eyes had held hers as he turned at the gate. Something stirred in those grey depths—she was sure of it—she felt it!

Surely he saw her worth. She was Éowyn, daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn, daughter of kings and more than a fit match for Isildur's heir! None in all Gondor could claim finer lineage. They would wed and in so doing the ancient oaths Rohan swore to Gondor would be renewed in flesh and blood. Side by side, they would ride forth to battle. Together they would throw down the Enemy. Together they would unite their kingdoms. Toge—

"My Lady!"

Éowyn blinked. Hastening across the plateau came Dúnhere,

Lord of Harrowdale. "What news, chieftain?"

"Riders approach, from Edoras."

"The King?" Éowyn's heart tripped.

"Nay, a strange company cloaked in grey and riding hard; thirty-four is their count; at their head rides the Lord Aragorn."

"Aragorn!" Éowyn cried. "Send out riders at once. Night falls and the road is treacherous to those unused to it. Bring torches to light the way. Hurry now! I must see to their comfort!"

Swiftly Éowyn headed across the field, issuing orders surer than any field commander. In short order, tents and booths were made ready to receive the travelers. Ale was found and boar turned on the spits, ready to feed the hungry company.

Éowyn returned to her tent and quickly donned a simple gown of purest white, the one fine thing she had taken in her haste. She unbound her hair and hurriedly ran a brush through it until it fell in rippling waves to her waist. Calmly she made her way to the chief pavilion and awaited the company's arrival. She did not have long to wait.

The Grey Company arrived as full darkness fell, and glad she was at their coming; no mightier men had she ever beheld than the Dúnedain and what a wonder were the sons of Elrond! Neither young nor old, yet Elven-fair were they; they were night to Legolas of Mirkwood's day.

Legolas seemed to glow in the dusk with a light all his own as he inclined his head to her and this time she did not shy from his bright eyes; rather, she turned towards his light as a flower leans towards the sun. The Dwarf too, had come and greeted her with a hearty, "Well met, lassie!." But upon Aragorn, her eyes came to rest most often.

She bid them lay aside their gear and come to meat, and so they talked together and she heard of all that had passed since Théoden rode away. Her eyes shone as she heard tell of deeds both brave and fell and she imagined herself in the thick of it all.

At last, she said, "Lords, you are weary. Beds we have for you such as could be contrived in haste. Take now your rest and on the morrow fairer housing shall be found for you."

Aragorn turned to her as his men filed past to seek their pallets. "Nay Lady, trouble yourself not on our account for we ride ere dawn's first light on an errand most urgent."

Smiling she said, "Then I must thank you for riding so many miles out of your way to bring me tidings. That was most kind of you."

"Any man would be glad to make such a journey yet I fear I would not have come hither if the road which I must take did not already lead me to Dunharrow."

The smile faded from Éowyn's lips and a frown marred her smooth brow. "Then, Lord, you are astray. No road runs east or south out of Harrowdale. You would be better off setting out from Edoras."

"Nay, Lady," Aragorn replied, "I know well the lay of this land for I walked it **'**ere long before you were born. The road from out this valley is the road ordained to me. Tomorrow I shall ride by the Paths of the Dead."

Éowyn stepped back and stared at him stricken. Her throat closed and she felt dizzy as all her carefully laid plans sifted like sand through her fingers.

After a long moment, she spoke in a voice tight with pain. "Is it then your errand to seek death, for that is all you will find on that road. The dead do not suffer the living to pass."

"They will suffer me," answered Aragorn.

"But this is madness, I beg thee, remain and ride with my brother, at least then we may hope."

"It is not madness, Lady, for I go on a path appointed and take with me only those who follow me of their own free will. But I would take the Paths of the Dead alone if need be."

"Then you go to your death." Éowyn replied and in silence led him the rest of the way to the tent prepared for him.

Aragorn bowed to her and turned to enter the tent.

"My Lord—Aragorn wait!" she called, her fair face grim but her eyes glimmering. "Why must you take this deadly road?"

"Because I must. I do not choose such perilous paths willingly, Éowyn. Were I to go where my heart dwells, I would now be wandering in the north in the fair valley of Rivendell." As he spoke, his hand strayed unconsciously to stroke a glittering gem at his throat, one fashioned in the likeness of a star and most out of place about the throat of a warrior.

Tears stung Éowyn's eyes as she realized now, once and for all, that her last hope was truly lost. That gem clearly belonged to a woman and looked fairer than anything wrought by human hands. Had he not just said "valley of Rivendell"; had not Boromir, Steward-son of Gondor not come to Edoras many long months past on a journey to the Elvish-land of the same name? Her heart turned to stone as she realized she was defeated, before she had even dared to hope. Aragorn, lost king of Gondor would never be hers for he had already clearly given his heart to another; to one not even, if she guessed aright, of mortal-kind.

Clearing her throat, she consigned herself to fate and played her last gambit, having nothing to lose. Shakily she said, "Lord, if you must go, then let me ride with you. Weary I am of hiding in the hills. I wish to face the Enemy in battle."

"Your duty is to your people," he answered.

"Do not speak to me of duty!" she cried. "Am I not of the House of Eorl? I am a shieldmaiden not a shepherd of the old and infirm. I have waited long enough and will wait no longer. May I not now spend my life as I will?"

"Few may do that with honor. A time may come soon when there will be need of valor without renown."

"I have heard that argument before, oft on the lips of my brethren. It is but to say—"You are a woman, and your part is in the house." I am a shieldmaiden of the House of Eorl. I can ride and wield blade, and I fear neither pain nor death!

"What do you fear then?" he asked.

"A cage," she spat. "To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire."

"Yet you council me against perilous paths?"

"I do not council you to flee from peril, but to ride where your sword may best win renown and victory. All I ask is that you allow me to do the same. The others go with you because they would not be parted from thee—because they love thee. You accept that from them; can you not accept it from me?"

Aragorn stared at her abashed. He had no words to soothe her. No words of his could ever console this proud Lady. Here before him was the very heart of Rohan—and it was breaking. Once high, proud, and excellent, the White Lady of Rohan turned in upon herself. He reached out one hand to catch a single tear that fell from her bright eyes but she turned and fled into the night.

x x x x x

Slowly the night wore by and Éowyn marked every minute. Hours ago, she had spent her last tear, and now she sat, huddled by the brazier. Cold whipped the wind about her tent, yet colder still was she within.

With the coming of Aragorn had gone her last and only hope for salvation. Now, but one path lay before her. If Aragorn would take the Paths of the Dead, then she too would take her own path to death. When the king arrived, she would disguise herself and ride in the éored. If she could not win renown in life, then she would do so in death.

She had spent the long hours of the night reflecting back on her life, and she found it bitter with little to lift the heart. From an early age, she had known grief and loss. When had she ever been happy? When had she last been unafraid? When had she ever felt truly cared for and loved? Éomer, perhaps, was the only one who knew her, who understood her; but he was her brother and his views oft mirrored Aragorn's—any man's for that matter. She was resolved in her course. She had long planned for it and now she was ready to meet her end—and such an end she would make!

Yet, if she did have any regrets, it was but one. Before she died, she wished she had known the love a good man. To know what it was to be touched and held and treasured. To feel what other women perhaps took for granted who were blessed with the love of a husband who cherished them above all else, as her father had cherished her mother.

She was one score and four years, well past the age most Rohirrim women wed and she had yet to be kissed. Even this simple, common thing had been denied her. Just once, before she died…

Shivering, she rose. Outside the sky was lightening to deep indigo. She could stand the sight of her tent no longer. Wrapping herself in her cloak and dark thoughts, she sought the open air.

The night was still and the camp yet slumbered. Quietly Éowyn picked her way between the tents and booths, careful not to stumble across tent pegs. She sought the open meadow and desired to see the stars before the cares of the coming day drove such foolishness from her thoughts.

Now that her mind was set upon her course, she felt somehow lighter. A fey mood took her as she gazed at the firmament above. Spreading her arms wide she turned slowly until the heavens wheeled and she collapsed to the grass in a dizzy heap.

Long she lay there watching the stars, something she had not taken the time to do since she was a child. Her eyes drifted shut and she caught on the night breeze the strains of music. Someone was strumming a stringed instrument—not a harp, but rather something foreign to her ear. The music was unlike anything she had ever heard before.

A voice joined the silver chords and it seemed to Éowyn as if the stars themselves sang—so liquid and full of light was the sound. Although she did not understand the language, the meaning of the words came clearly to her and she wondered at the spell in which she found herself ensnared. Calming her mind, she focused on the beauty of the lilting voice:

"Feeling you shake, feel your heart break

Thinking if only, if only, if only, if only…

And the salt water runs, through your veins and your bones

Telling you no not this way, not this way, not this way.

And you would give anything, give up everything.

Offer your life blood away, for yesterday.

No one leaves you, when they live in your heart and mind.

No one dies, they just move to the other side.

When we're gone, watch the world simply carry on.

We'll live on, laughing and in no pain.

We'll stay and be happy, with those who have loved us today.

Finding the answer, it's a Human obsession.

But you might as well talk to the stones, and the trees, and the sea.

For nobody knows, and so few can see.

There's only beauty and caring and truth beyond the darkness.

And we won't understand your grief, for time is illusion.

As this watery world spins around,

This timeless sun, will dry your eyes

And calm your mind.

No one leaves you, when they live in your heart and mind.

No one dies, they just move to the other side.

When we're gone, watch the world simply carry on.

We'll live on, laughing and in no pain,

We'll stay and be happy, with those who have loved us today."

Unaware of her actions, Éowyn rose, following the music's pull. Never had she heard anything so joyful yet, at the same time, sorrowful. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, however she could not honestly say they were tears of sorrow alone for her heart had filled with a curious peace.

She came to a halt almost at the brink of the Firienfield. Below, lay the valley wrapped in slumber; before her, perched on a large rock, sat Legolas, a beautifully carved stringed instrument in his arms. He no longer sang, but the last notes still hung pure and crystalline in the air.

"You, you sing a prayer for the dead, Master Elf?"

"Nay, Lady, I sing for the living." Oddly, Legolas did not seem surprised to see her there, abroad alone in the night. Instead, he beckoned her to join him on the rock.

"But, it seems to me you sing of those departed."

The Elf smiled gently, laying the instrument aside. "To my people, the veil between life and death is thin. Those of us who depart from life by grief or mischance, go to dwell for a time in the Halls of Mandos, to one day be reborn to the flesh if it be Eru's will. But, while the dead may be parted from us for a time, they live on in our hearts and minds; therefore we live on happy to carry their memory throughout eternity."

The ghost of a smile crossed Éowyn's face. "Then I suppose death is not such an ill thing, although the fate of men's souls is less certain."

Legolas wrapped his long arms about his knees and studied the woman next to him. While the Elf peeled back the layers of her soul she stared boldly back at him.

Truly, he was a remarkable being and never had she seen one fairer. Quicksilver he shone in the night and her head spun with thoughts fey and wild. If Aragorn's Lady of Rivendell was even the slightest bit as fair as the Elf before her, then she could well understand why he had given her his heart.

"Why do you seek death, Lady?"

"Éowyn gasped, shaken from her reverie. "What—what do you mean?"

"You are so young, with all your life before you, yet you run headlong into death. Is there nothing you value enough to hold on to?"

"I value renown. I value a life spent accomplishing great deeds."

"Are you not renowned, have you not done great deeds, Lady of Rohan?"

"Nay, I have been naught but a nursemaid to a failing king, and a shepherd to a flock of helpless sheep. I am a woman, which means little more than house-thrall. What do you see when you look upon me, Master Elf?"

Legolas gazed sadly upon her, but without pity. "I see a beautiful flower touched by frost, withering 'ere the sun can bring it to full bloom. You are like the white flowers on the barrow mounds outside Edoras. Fair, yet blooming only where there is death. I see a woman torn between her love for her king and people and the demands of duty her station require of her. I see a young maid who equates valor with death, yet the two are not the same."

"Maybe not to an Elf. So tell me, Legolas of the Great Wood, why are you here? Why do you follow a mortal man down a path which leads to certain death?"

"No path is certain. There are many answers to your questions. I am here for the love of my king and my people. I am here because I was chosen from among many wiser and perhaps mightier. I am here out of friendship for a mortal man whom I have known since he was a child. Where Aragorn son of Arathorn walks, so shall Legolas of Lasgalen."

Éowyn sighed, who was she to question one rumored to be immortal, if the tales of her fathers held any truth. "Do you have any regrets?"

Legolas looked at her curiously. "Regrets?"

"The Enemy pauses for the final strike and we are come perhaps to the ending of all days. If there was one thing, right now, that you would do, what would it be?"

Now it was the Elf's turn to sigh as he drew his knees up closer to his chest, resting his chin upon them. "I would speak with my father. I would ask him how it goes with the Greenwood. I would hold him close one last time and tell him I love him. I never got a chance to say goodbye and that I deeply regret. I was sent to Imladris bearing tidings of grave import. No one could foresee I would be chosen to embark on a quest that would take me into the very teeth of the Enemy."

Éowyn nodded, moved by his words. For a long while, they sat in silence.

"What of you, my Lady, what regrets have you?" Legolas asked finally.

Éowyn hung her head. She knew he would eventually ask her, but she knew not in truth, how she would reply. He had given her an honest answer, and he deserved nothing less in return.

She felt she stood on the brink of some great abyss, before her stretched death and darkness into infinity, beside her sat the essence of all that was light and life.

"My Lady?"

In a broken whisper, she replied, "I regret never having known love. Never knowing what it is to be held in strong arms and cherished." She raised eyes shining with tears. The beauty of the Elf before her broke whatever was left of her heart and the words poured forth before she could pull them back.

"Show me, Legolas, grant me this one wish and show me what it is to love and be loved—just this once. Just once before I die, I would know what it is to be loved by a man."

Legolas neither drew back nor shied away from the shieldmaiden's bold words, he but regarded her in stunned silence.

"Please, Legolas!" Éowyn cried. "Do not make me beg, this is difficult enough for me."

At last, Legolas ducked his head. "Forgive me, my Lady, but I cannot."

"Why? I ask but a small thing in sooth. You are male, are you not?"

Legolas let loose a heavy sigh. "Aye, that I am."

"Then why not? Why—oh!" she drew back. "I see. Coarse, harsh, and ugly I must seem to one of your kind. Forgive me, I should have realized."

"Nay Lady, I find you most fair," came his soft reply.

Éowyn looked at him curiously now. "I do not understand—then why can you not?"

Legolas at last looked uncomfortable, and he studied the strings of his instrument with great interest. "It would seem our people are very different. Elf-kind do not love as easily or freely as mortal-kind. We give our hearts but once, but it is for all eternity. When we consummate our love, it is the ultimate of all bondings—the two fëa—life-spirits—become one, never to be sundered, not even by death."

Éowyn gaped in amazement. Suddenly she was thankful for the starlight for she felt herself blush to her very toes. "Forgive me, Legolas," she stammered. "You must think me crude and unseemly."

"Nay, Lady, you but dare to be honest."

"Still, I pray forgiveness for my forward words."

"Forgiveness is not necessary for I understand your need, all too well. I too, wish I had been fortunate enough to have known love—before the end."

Éowyn drew back and studied the Elf. He seemed young but his eyes told a different tale. "Have you then—you mean to say—you have never—not—ever?"

"Nay," Legolas sighed, gazing up at the fading stars. "I have not yet heard the song of my one love's fëa; not in my own land, not in Imladris and not in Lorien. I have traveled to all the Elven realms of Middle Earth many times and have never heard her song. Unless she dwells in Mithlond, with Cirdan's folk, then she either exists not on these hither shores or else she has not yet been born.

"I fear the worst if it is the latter for my people are leaving these lands and will bear no more children here. If it is the former, then I fear the worst as well for unless death take me in the coming battle I will not depart these shores for a long while yet. If we defeat the Enemy, then I still will not sail for Valinor for a countless span of years for my heart lies still in the woodlands of my home and loath am I to leave them."

Éowyn smiled, "Fear not Legolas of the Greenwood, I believe your lady is out there somewhere, waiting for you to come home to her."

Legolas lifted a quizzical brow. "This lady then must possess great patience, for I have kept her waiting a long while. Not very gallant of me, I fear. Ah well, I suppose another few centuries will matter not."

Éowyn laughed, a surprisingly light and bell-like sound in one usually so stern. "A few centuries, sir? Just how old are you?"

Now it was the Elf's turn to laugh. "Do you mortals not know it is rude to ask an Elf his age? You are no better than Aragorn when he was young." He chided, although he was not offended in sooth. The Lady's laugher heartened him, and he believed for the first time that she might yet be turned from her dark path.

"Truly, is it rude to ask such a thing?" Éowyn sighed, catching her breath.

"Aye, it is deemed most impolite, but I will allow you to claim ignorance this one time. I will say but this, I remember well the folk of Eorl. Long they dwelt by the fringes of Lasgalen until the wood darkened as the might of Dol Guldur grew.

"When your people resettled in the north at the source of Anduin they proved to be good friends and helped guard the northern edge of the wood near our realm and aided us in holding the orcs at bay."

"You remember?" Éowyn gasped.

"As if it were but a few brief seasons ago. I served at that time on the Northern Watch, and dealt often with the folk of Léod. Grievous was his death but Eorl proved to be a good friend of the Greenwood as was his father before him. Loath was my king to see Eorl ride south to battle at the Celebrant. We all thought for a surety he would meet his end but fortunately, it was not to be. A proud day it was when Eorl returned to lead his people to their new home here in the Calenardhon. Yet it was a sad day in Lasgalen."

"Legolas, truly I am amazed to hear you speak of events that are only the dimmest memory to we Eorlingas, and yet you speak as if they were but yesterday."

"To me all the past is but as yesterday. It is the way of my kind, we are blessed or cursed, as you will with long memories that never dim. We—" the Elf froze, his eyes fixing on the encampment.

Éowyn laid a hand upon the Elf's arm, "Legolas?"

With a fluid movement, he leapt down from his perch. "It is time, Aragorn awaits." Reaching up he lifted her down as if she weighed less than a feather.

Quickly she reached up forestalling him a moment, color ran high in her cheeks as she said, "Truly Legolas, I beg thee to forgive my forward speech. A fey mood took me and I know not what came over me. I would not have you think the sister-daughter of the king of Rohan to be of loose manner. I but—"

Gently Legolas silenced her with a slender finger against her lips. "I never thought such a thing, not even for a moment and since I deem your heart desires it, I vow to you to never speak of our conversation to another."

Éowyn's eyes brightened with tears. "I thank thee, Master Elf. May your arrows speed true. Go in safety and with the love of a friend—mortal though she may be."

Legolas leaned down, brushing his lips first against her brow, then lightly against her lips. Stepping back, he raised his hand to his heart then extended it to her palm outwards. "I name thee Elf-friend, Éowyn daughter of kings, White Lady of Rohan. May Eärendil shine upon thee always and be a light to thee in the dark places. May your blade be keen and your shield-arm never fail you. Have hope, child of Eorl. We will meet again **'**ere the ending of all days."

With that, the Elf was gone, melting into the fading night. For a moment Éowyn stood gazing after his fleet form, her fingers pressed against her still tingling lips. Slowly she followed through grass wet with dew.

x x x x x

Gimli glanced over his shoulder and jogged Aragorn's elbow. He had to do so more than once to get the man's attention, so lost was he in thought as he tightened the saddle girth on Roheryn. At last, Aragorn glanced down and spied the reason for Gimli's agitation. Éowyn came striding towards them clad in full Rohirrim battle gear and bearing a parting cup.

She drank to their health and they to hers. When at last Aragorn had passed back the cup, she raised her head proudly but it seemed to those standing near, that she wept within. Hard was the sight to bear in one so high and proud.

"Aragorn, wilt thou go?" She said at last.

"I will."

"Then I ask again, wilt thou not let me ride with your company?"

"I will not, Lady. I cannot."

Something within her snapped and Éowyn fell to her knees at Aragorn's feet. Legolas started, and it took all his resolve not to reach out to her.

"I beg thee!" She cried.

Aragorn's eyes filled with tears as he gently raised her to her feet. It wrenched his heart that he was the cause of so much pain to one already overburdened by grief. "Nay, Lady," was all he could say as he kissed her hand and leapt into the saddle.

The rest of the company followed suit and passed down the road that led to the black Dwimorberg. Not a one looked back but if they had, they would have seen the White Lady of Rohan standing straight and proud, still as a statue. It was not until the last horse disappeared from view that she allowed herself to turn and stumble back to her tent.

x x x x x

For a time the road was wide enough to allow several men to ride abreast, and so Aragorn rode flanked by Elladan to his left and Legolas with Gimli to his right. Upon Legolas' right rode Elrohir.

"What a remarkable woman." Elladan said at last. "Come Aragorn, what was all that about?"

"You heard her words," he replied tightly. "The Lady wished to ride with us."

"But why?" Elrohir echoed. "You must admit it a strange desire for one gentle born."

"Not for Éowyn, daughter of Éomund," was all Aragorn would say.

For a while, they rode in silence. Softly, Legolas said, "I worry for her. She will not stay idle. Fey she is and reckless. I would not be surprised to cross her path in the coming battle."

"What know _you_ of the Lady?" asked Elladan, quirking a brow at the blonde Elf.

Legolas shrugged. "She arose early and came upon me watching the stars. We spoke but briefly."

"So that is where my lute got to." Elrohir laughed.

"What did the lass have to say for herself then." Gimli grunted.

"Little enough," Legolas replied. "It was rather what she did not say that causes me to fear. What do you know of her, Aragorn? She is too young to bear the weight of sorrow I see upon her heart. She has given up on life 'ere she has lived it."

Aragorn sighed, "I know little more than you, but I do know she and Éomer lost both father and mother when they were still children. Difficult it must have been to be so bereft while so young, nor could it have been easy coming of age in those halls, watching an uncle who loved you as a daughter fail before your eyes."

"Hmmph, no thanks to that snake of a Wormtongue," Gimli growled.

"Aye," answered Aragorn. "It is unlikely Wormtongue's poison was only for Théoden's ears. With no one to confide her fears to, who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone in the bitter watches of the night."

"Your words do little to hearten me, Aragorn." Legolas said. "Did you not see her eyes? The fire within her has all but died. She seemed to me a broken thing. Mark my words, when Théoden rides forth, Éowyn will contrive a way to ride with him."

Aragorn paused, drawing back on Roheryn's reins glancing back the way they had come.

Elladan laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Be that as it may, you can do naught to prevent it, gwador. Your path is ordained as is hers. I sense destiny at work here, do you not feel it as well, Legolas?"

"Aye," the Elf agreed sadly, "Her doom is indeed upon her, whether she recognizes it or no; that she tries not to escape it, is what grieves me."

"None of us may escape fate," said Elladan. "We can only meet it head on. I for one will meet it, sword in hand."

"As will I!" agreed Aragorn, clucking to Roheryn. Swiftly they continued down the path to the Dwimorberg.

End of Part One

From "The Two Towers", J.R.R Tolkien

"Estonia" lyrics by Steve Hogarth

gwador: brother (not born of blood)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Théoden King at last arrived at Dunharrow to find all the valley a beehive of activity as warriors made ready to ride. Éowyn looked on in silence, but with a sore heart, as she watched the holbytla, Meriadoc—was that his name—beg the king to take him along into battle. Though short on stature, the Halfling certainly was not short on heart. Amazed, she heard him tell the king that if left behind, then he would run all the way perforce. Well she knew how he felt!

"Come now, Meriadoc!" she called, joining him where he stood forlornly. "I will show you the gear I have prepared for you."

The Halfling sighed and shuffled after her. "You waste your time, Lady. What good is gear when it appears I'll never see battle?"

Éowyn led Merry to a small tent and there showed him the helm, shield and other oddments she had found for him. The Hobbit brightened a bit but soon grew downcast. "Thank you, Lady, but I really don't see the point. It seems my path has come to a dead end."

"No path is certain. There," she gave Merry's helm a light tap and rose to her feet. "You look a proper Rider of the Mark now. Come, have a look." She turned him so that he could see his reflection in a burnished shield.

"Well, well, if they could see me back at Brandyhall now!" Merry laughed, turning this way and that.

Éowyn smiled grimly, "Go now, Meriadoc, off to the blacksmith with you. That sword of yours wouldn't cut a turnip, let alone an orc. Be off with you and have it sharpened."

Merry laughed, pulling his short sword from its sheath. "I guess it is a bit dull." Halfway to the tent flap he turned, "Lady, you saw Strider—I mean, Aragorn, before he left. Did he have any words for me?"

Éowyn bit her lip. She had not the heart to say him nay, so bright was the hope in his eyes. What harm was there in a little white lie? "Aye, Lord Aragorn bid me to tell you to, "Have hope; we will meet again 'ere the ending of all days." Though they were Legolas' words to her, she did not think the Elf would mind.

"Strider said that? Well then, I shall hold to that hope."

"So shall we all." Éowyn agreed and made her way back to her own tent. The king would ride to Edoras at dawn and she had much to do

x x x x x

"Helm, shield, sword, little sister? It would seem you will not be taken at unawares should the tide turn and the Enemy come to Dunharrow!"

Éowyn wheeled, automatically bringing her sword up as Éomer's own blade came down and the swords clashed, eliciting sparks in the dim light of the tent.

"Good, good," the Third Marshall of the Mark laughed, satisfied with Éowyn's quick reflexes. The Enemy would not find _this _female weak and defenseless at any rate.

Éowyn disengaged, tossing her sword back onto her cot. "It is late for sparring, brother. What brings you here? You should be sleeping for the King rides at sun up."

"I will turn in anon; I would speak with you first. I would take my leave of you now, little sister, without the eyes of all assembled upon us."

Éowyn turned her back, crossing her arms protectively. She had been dreading this meeting and now that the moment had come, her carefully rehearsed speech fled her mind. Her armor lay on the cot and without it, she felt weak, vulnerable; once again, the frail little girl her elder brother was forever watching over. Who now would watch and guard her if she set foot upon the path to which she was committed?

"Éowyn, what is it?" Éomer came forward laying his hand on his sister's shoulder; he was shocked to feel her trembling. Gently he turned her, enfolding her in his arms. "I will not say to you do not fear, for we both know well what we face and what is at stake. I _will _say to you—nay, I vow to you, to come home hale and strong if it is in my power."

Éowyn gripped her brother with all her strength. "Go with all my love and prayers for victory or else swift and valiant death but do not ask me for hope, for I have none left; I have given it all away."

"Hope may be found in the strangest of places. I never thought I would see the day that Saruman would be defeated, yet I saw the wizard brought low and his staff broken with my own eyes. I saw the might of Isildur's heir in battle. I saw Isengard destroyed by creatures out of legend. The Enemy may be strong, but we, too, have strength and allies unlooked for; for the first time I dare to hope. Take heart, little sister; we may yet see our way through this."

Éowyn drew away blinking back tears as she smiled grimly. "Then I pray our strength will be enough. Tell Uncle that I ride with him, that I will face the Enemy alongside him; that if he should fall in battle, then I will be right there beside him."

"I will tell him, though he already knows you ride with us in spirit. Take care, little sister; guard thee well should the Enemy come to Dunharrow. Show no mercy. And for the love of Béma, keep your elbows in!"

Éowyn laughed amidst her tears at the old jest and recited the familiar litany of many a sword practice. "Eyes on your enemy's, elbows in, keep moving."

"Aye, shieldmaiden, the Enemy will not know what hit him."

x x x x x

"My Lady? I saw the light and came to see if you were well."

Éowyn looked up from her seat on the cot. Éomer had left an hour past. All lay in readiness for the morrow but she could not sleep, nor did she bother to try.

"Child?"

"I am well, Ælfeorh; I just cannot sleep."

"Of course not, who can?" the older woman replied. "May I join you then in your vigil?"

"Aye, your presence as ever is a comfort."

The older woman settled herself on the cot as Éowyn studied her. She had known this woman all her life, first as nurse, later as surrogate mother. Stout, stubborn and not a more devoted servant could Éowyn wish for. The years had left their mark, silvering hair and wrinkling skin but the shoulders remained unbowed and not a soul young or old would fail to jump when this woman barked.

"So, child, when were you planning on telling me? Or were you going to leave me a scroll to find in the morning?"

Éowyn started, "Tell you, tell you what?"

Ælfeorh's shrewd blue eyes narrowed. "Do not play me for a fool, lass, you were never adept at dissembling."

Éowyn sighed, at least now she could save herself the trouble of writing a missive. "I ride on the morrow with the king."

"Of course you do. With all Rohan mustering at Edoras, there will be much to do."

Éowyn raised her eyes, fixing her old nurse with an unwavering gaze. Ælfeorh studied her moment, her face tightening as it drained of all color.

"Oh child," she breathed, taking Éowyn's cold hands into her own. "I know you too well so let us come right to it. I know what is in your heart. I watched in silence all these years as Gríma Gálmód-son withered your heart with his poison. I watched your eyes fill with light at the coming of Aragorn, Lost-king, only to drain once again, more devoid of hope than before as he rode for the Dwimorberg.

"I know you dream of high deeds and none can fault your heart, but I beg thee, do not do this. Do not throw your life away. Stay here among those who love you. Your sword will be needed here to defend your people. The King takes all the able-bodied with him to fight in foreign lands. Who will stand with us? Who will stand for Rohan when the Enemy comes hither?"

Éowyn hardened her heart. "You will, Ælfeorh, Æfheorte-daughter, you will protect our people."

"Nay, my Lady, I could not!"

"Aye, you can and you must for there is no one else I may trust with this task, no one else I have faith in."

Ælfeorh dropped her head as tears coursed down her weathered cheeks. "Ah, you place too much upon me."

"I place naught which you cannot manage—and manage better than I. All will follow you."

"Then there is nothing I can say to stay you from this course?"

"Nay, nothing."

Ælfeorh sighed, untying a small pouch hanging from her belt. "I thought as much. Here, you best take this then. Your mother wanted you to have it. She charged me to give it to you on your wedding day, but seeing as—" her voice trailed off.

Éowyn opened the pouch with trembling fingers, drawing out a golden brooch studded with gems. She gasped as the ornament gleamed in the firelight. The brooch was cunningly fashioned in the likeness of a Great Worm devouring its own tail. Small emerald eyes, winked at her in the flickering flames of the brazier.

"It is beautiful."

"Your father gave that to your mother as her bride-gift. It represents life from death, the sacred cycle of renewal. Wear it into battle and mayhap the love of those whom bestowed it will protect you."

Éowyn threw her arms about Ælfeorh. "I will wear it and never forget all you have done for me. I love you as a mother, Ælfeorh. Weep not for me unless they be happy tears, for I know what I must do. I am free now at last to defend my people as I was meant to."

x x x x x

Ælfeorh (Elf-spirit): Original character. For the purpose of this story she is Elfhelm's mother.

Ælfheorte: Elf-heart


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Éowyn kept to the back of the line as Théoden's army rode for Edoras. None guessed the White Lady rode amongst them as she went disguised as a Rider in full battle gear. Although weighed down by mail and shield, she never felt freer. Gone at last were the shackles of long skirts and slippers, symbols of her thralldom.

She had only a moment's pause when the holbytla rode by on Stybba. Her heart skipped a moment and it seemed the Halfling pierced her disguise, but it was not so. She was just another Rider in a host of many to his eye.

At noon, they came to Edoras though the gloom above had been deepening ever since dawn. The foul mirk flowed from the east and weighed heavy on the heart. The men whispered the end was nigh, that day would ne'er dawn again, and well did she believe it.

Éowyn looked on as her uncle dismissed Meriadoc from his service. She was too far away to catch the words but she could well guess their import as the Halfling went away unhappily. Taking pity upon him, she moved to his side and whispered. "Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say."

Merry looked up, recognition in his eyes. Éowyn held her breath then realized he but took her for the anonymous warrior he had noticed riding out of Dunharrow.

"You wish to ride with the King of the Mark; I see it in your eyes."

"I do," said Merry. "All my friends ride to war; I would not be left behind."

"Then you shall ride with me. I will hide you 'neath my cloak until we are far afield. Come!"

"You have my thanks indeed, Sir, though I do not know your name," said Merry.

"Truly?" Éowyn replied softly. "Then call me Dernhelm."

x x x x x

For four days, the companies of the Rohirrim rode hard and Éowyn and Merry rode amongst them undetected. As soon as they had ridden out of Edoras Éowyn attached herself to the éored commanded by Elfhelm for he was Ælfeorh's son and more like to keep his silence should her disguise slip, at least if Ælfeorh will had ought to say about it.

Finally, they were less than a day's ride from the walls of Minas Tirith. Éowyn all but fell from the saddle when the host halted; she had thought herself fit, a good rider and hardened to the saddle, but four days of hard riding in heavy mail forced her to remember she was a woman after all.

She spent the day getting as much rest as possible for this was the last push before the battle. Soon, they rode in sooth to war and it seemed more than likely to her that she would not survive it.

She kept to herself but gathered what news she could. The King met now with the headman of the Woses, the Wildmen of the Druadan Forest. She had spied him as he was escorted to the King's tent and would have dared another glimpse but decided it too risky.

The call to ride came soon enough and it was back in the saddle for her and Meriadoc as they took their place in the long files of Riders as they passed over the thickly wooded ridges. By late afternoon, they made camp in the thickets of the Stonewain Valley.

Éowyn tried to sleep but found it impossible. In just a few hours, they would ride and there would be no stopping for now they were come to it at last. Far away and almost straight ahead, a red glow appeared under the black sky; against it, loomed the sides of a great mountain.

Teeth chattering, she shuddered in her blanket though the air was not cold. She clutched her mother's brooch for strength and courage as she lay there watching that far off blood-glow. She no longer guessed what the morrow would bring, she but prayed to have the courage to face it.

Briefly, she wondered where Aragorn was and how his company faired; were they already lost to the dead? She fervently prayed it was not so. She thought back on Legolas' words, brave though they were at the time she doubted she would ever see him again—any of them for that matter.

x x x x x

Night lay thick, made deeper still by the Enemy's mirk. On either side of the road, the host of Rohan moved silently. Éowyn experienced near relief when the summons to ride came. She found she functioned better as long as she kept moving.

The King rode in the midst of the leading company with Éomer and the men of his household about him. Stealthily Éowyn detached herself from Elfhelm's éored and crept steadily forward until she was riding just rear of the King's guard. As she passed, she thought she saw Elflhelm bow his head to her. Merry glanced up but she shook her head in caution.

There came a check as the outriders returned to report to the king. Éowyn pressed forwardas close as she dared to catch the tidings.

"The Mundberg is aflame and the field is full of foes, but all seem occupied with the assault."

Another outrider spoke up. "The wind turns. There comes a breath out of the south with a sea tang to it. Above the mirk you will find the dawn when you pass the wall."

"These are good tidings indeed!" Théoden said and turned so all who stood near could hear. "Now comes the hour, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl! Foe and fire are before you, home and hearth behind. Oaths ye have taken. Now fulfill them all!"

The leading company rode off and Éowyn spurred her mount. Behind her Meriadoc loosened his hold on her waist as he readied his sword in its sheath.

Swiftly the horses devoured the league to where the outer walls stood. Wild cries broke out and there was a brief clash of arms ahead. There were few orcs on the walls and they were easily driven off.

The King halted again before the ruin of the north-gate of the Rammas and Éowyn kept close by him. Ten miles ahead could be seen a great burning and before them stretched a wide dark plain.

Silentlythe host moved forward onto the field, rising steadily like a tide. Soon the King led them eastward to come between the fires of the siege and the outer fields; still no foe challenged them, still Théoden gave no signal. Breath rasped harshly as Éowyn's chest constricted and her palms grew slick with dread. Tightly she clenched her jaw to still her chattering teeth.

The reek of burning was in the air along with the very shadow of death. The King sat upon Snowmane and for a moment seemed cowed by what lay before them.

Then suddenly she felt it, a change in the air. Lifting her face, Éowyn caught it again—wind! Light glimmered far off; to the south clouds rolled up and drifted away, revealing the morning behind them.

Just at that moment came a bright flash as of lightening followed by a great boom. Éowyn had no idea what was happening but at that moment, Théoden King rose in his stirrups and cried aloud:

"Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!

Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!

Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,

a sword-day, a red day, **'**ere the sun rises!

Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!"

Guthláf, Banner-bearer sounded his great horn. Crying, "Rohan!" Théoden spurred Snowmane on.

"Hold fast to me, Master Meriadoc!" Éowyn cried over the chorus of answering horns. Merry responded by tightening his left arm as his right drew his sword.

Adrenaline slammed into Éowyn, igniting her blood like pitch-soaked kindling. She hauled back on her reins as her mount reared. Crying, "Rohan! Rohan!" she hurtled into battle.

Her throat burned as her voice was lost in the battle cry of the Rohirrim. Tirelessly her arm rose and fell. Black blood splashed and soon it covered her.

She was no longer conscious of her actions as battle frenzy consumed her. She was a mindless automaton, fueled by hate and despair. She knew not how many times her sword dealt death, nor if the Halfling managed to keep his seat behind her.

Swiftly she won through the orc lines and somehow managed to keep hard by Théoden as he raced his mount towards the chieftain of the Southrons. Now Éowyn found herself hewing mortal men, no different than the Rohirrim save their skin was darker and they sided with Mordor. No matter, a foe was a foe!

A glancing blow struck her thigh drawing off her attention. On the ground, a boy raced to her raising his scimitar. Mindlessly her sword came down, catching him in the gap of his armor between neck and shoulder. Blood sprayed and the boy fell dead.

Éowyn froze. For the space of a second nothing else existed except the boy—he couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve summers—his blood, the same red as hers, soaking into the earth. What was he doing here? Why was he not home, safe? Did he have mother, father, sister, brothers?

Something shattered within her and the battle lust drained away leaving her hollow and empty. She had just slain a child whose only crime was to believe in the opposite cause.

Éowyn wrenched her gaze away. All about her was carnage. Glancing down she saw she and her horse covered in gore. The metallic taste of it even in her mouth as the boy's blood had splattered across her face as she leaned down for the deathblow. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? Where was the valor and glory in such slaughter?

As Éowyn sat dazed, staring down at the fallen youth, she was heedless to the Halfling's urgent cries; heedless of the great shadow descending, blotting out the sun; heedless of the screams of horses as they reared in terror, casting their riders from the saddle to lie groveling upon the ground; heedless of Snowmane roaring with terror and pain as he took an arrow and crashed to his side, crushing Théoden beneath him.

"Dernhelm!" Merry cried from somewhere off to the left. He had managed to keep his seat until the shadow came and Éowyn's horse reared. "The King has fallen!" he cried, struggling to crawl forward though blinded by abject terror.

Éowyn dragged her eyes from the dead youth and lo, it was sooth. Snowmane lay screaming in his death throes, Théoden King trapped beneath him.

"Uncle!" she croaked as tears rolled down her cheeks. Grief blocked all fear as she kneed her mount, blind to the sight of the Halfling crawling forward.

Grief and despair lay hold of her in a relentless grip. Théoden King was fallen! All was lost—lost! The darkness filled her lungs and mind. She was nothing—nay, worse than nothing; she had become a slayer of children. By action and deed, she had become more monstrous than any minion of the Enemy. Furthermore, she had failed to protect her King—her uncle—one who had loved her as a father.

Raising her eyes from Théoden's broken body she beheld the source of the shadow; a great winged beast, stinking of the most fetid pits of Morder crouched; evil exuding from it like a miasma. Upon its back sat a black shrouded figure, huge and menacing. A crown of steel he wore but no face there was between rim and mantle save twin orbs of flame. The Lord of the Nazgûl, sat gloating, a great black mace in his mailed fist.

"Begone, Demon Lord. You'll find no sport here!" she cried.

"Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!"

"Do what you will; but you must first pass me."

"You dare hinder me? Fool! No living man may hinder me!"

Éowyn threw back her head and laughed, a ringing sound clear as a sword clearing the sheath. "Fool! I am no man! I am Éowyn, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and one precious to me. Begone, for living or dead I will kill you if you touch him!"

Merry opened his eyes in amazement at the sound of Éowyn's voice. A few feet before him loomed the Lord of the Nazgûl, a little to the left stood Dernhelm—no, Éowyn! She had lost her helm and her hair spilled bright down her back. Fearless and fell were her eyes as she raised sword and shield.

It _was _Éowyn, his eyes had not been cheated! Pity moved him and his courage stirred at the brave sight of her defying the darkness. She should not die alone, unaided—not if he could do anything about it.

Slowly the Hobbit crawled forward unheeded. At that moment, the beast leaped into the air and fell upon Éowyn, striking out with beak and claw.

Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan, stood her ground. Raising her sword in a mighty blow, she hewed the beast's head from its outstretched neck. She leaped back as the wreckage of the creature crashed to the ground. With its passing came the sunrise and her heart lifted.

A fell shriek rent the air, cleaving Éowyn's heart in twain. Raising her eyes, she beheld the Lord of the Nazgûl advancing upon her. Reflexively she brought her shield up as the Witch-king's mace fell.

Blinding pain ripped through her as her shield shattered and her arm broke. As she fell to her knees, the Black Rider towered over her for the final blow.

Time crawled by, or so it seemed, and all Éowyn's world became twin orbs of flame and a black mace descending upon her slowly, ever so slowly.

'So it comes to this,' was all she could think. Peace stole across her and she deemed it a fair end. It was meet that she die this way, swatted like a fly by an enemy so absolute in its evil; no valor, no glory, no renown for a child-slayer and failure. Yes, it was fair.

Time came jolting back into its normal course and the Witch-king stumbled forward with a cry. The mace went wide, driving harmlessly into the ground.

"Éowyn! Éowyn!" Merry cried.

She struggled to her feet, stumbled over to the Lord of the Nazgûl, and beheld a wonder. The Halfling's sword protruded from the back of the Ringwraith's knee. With the last of her strength, she drove her sword through the empty space between crown and shoulders, putting out those orbs of flame forever.

Her sword shattered and she felt the shock of it in every bone of her body. Pitching forward, she fell upon her fallen foe only to connect with hard earth. A shrill wail, devoid of all life pierced the air, and Éowyn knew no more.

x x x x x

End of Part Two: To Be Continued.

From "The Return of the King", J.R.R. Tolkien


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Éowyn stood alone upon the Firienfield. Above her, a night sky sparkled with stars, beneath her feet, grass bedecked with Simbelmynë unfolded into infinity. A clean, crisp breeze blew about her, filling her mind with its purity. Far off on the wind a voice called. "Awake, the shadow is gone and all Darkness is washed clean."

She knew that voice, but could not put a name to it. It belonged to a shadow and a thought. Another voice called to her. "Éowyn, Éowyn!" and this one she knew for he was dearer than any other.

She struggled to lift her eyelids but could only manage the barest crack. "Éomer? What joy is this? I dreamed you were dead," she whispered.

"Nay, sister, I live. Think no more on evil dreams." Éomer cried, pressing her hand to his tear streaked cheek.

"But not all of it was a dream, was it? What of Uncle?"

Éomer hung his head. "He is dead and now lies in state at the Citadel. But he bade me say farewell to you **'**ere he departed."

"Then he is at peace. At least he died in the manner he desired, with honor and dignity. But what of the Halfling? His actions were among the bravest I've ever known."

"Worry not, he lies nearby. I go to him now and will bear him your good wishes," said Gandalf, stepping from the shadows. Éowyn recognized his voice and struggled to lift her eyelids, but the effort proved too great.

"Easy, Lady," Gandalf said. "Do not overtax yourself, nor think on war or woe. It is enough to see you wake again, sound and whole."

"Whole?" Éowyn breathed. "That may be too much to hope for." With those words, her last strength gave out and she fell into a deep slumber.

x x x x x

Éowyn slept for two days straight and when she awoke, it was to find the King's Host departed and well on the march to Mordor. At first, she had been enraged; the effrontery of it all, being left behind like unwanted baggage!

Slowly, her anger waned, leaving her empty and without purpose. With her arm broken, she was less than useless. Swiftly, she fell into deep depression and soon gave up caring about anything.

The healers, for she lay in the Houses of Healing, came and went but she paid them no heed. She cared not whether she stayed abed or if she sat in the chair by the window. When the women came, she remained docile as they dressed her. If food was placed against her lips, she opened her mouth, chewed and swallowed but said not one word, nor took notice of her surroundings in any way. She spent the entire day unmoving in her chair by the window, gazing out but seeing nothing.

After a full day of such despondency Ioreth, eldest and chief among the women took council with the Warden of that good house. "Her body is healed, her arm well on the mend," the old wife shook her head ruefully. "I simply cannot account for her malady."

"Only the King may guess at how deep her wounds go," said the Warden. "Is she the one that slayed the Nazgûl?"

"Aye, none other."

"The King said onto me **'**ere he departed, that when the Lady Éowyn recovered she would seek to leave our care, but that we must prevent her from doing so and keep her with us for at least another seven days."

"I see no sign of her wishing to leave," Ioreth snorted, "or do anything for that matter. I do not think we need worry on that account."

The Warden furrowed his brow. "We may yet, for the Lady strikes me as one like to extremes in all things. We must prepare for when she returns to herself."

"Prepare for what?"

"That remains to be seen," the Warden replied. "Where is she now?"

"She is being dressed and if she will take some breakfast, I thought a brief spell in the gardens might do her some good."

"Yes, let her not sit alone in her room, for what she needs most now is a distraction."

x x x x x

Faramir strolled the winding paths of the gardens. Life flowed strong in his veins, the sun shone warm upon him, yet his heart was heavy. He still wrestled with the death of his father. The wound left by the passing of Denethor, was proving slow to heal.

Turning a corner, he beheld a young woman sitting on a bench by the eastern wall. Straight she sat yet appeared deep in thought. Faramir came closer and saw that the Lady was injured, one arm splinted and in a sling.

Quietly the Steward came over, but the Lady took no notice of him, not even when he came up beside her; her vacant eyes remaining fixed upon the east.

Since she offered no objection, Faramir sat beside her on the bench and took his time studying her. Never had he seen such beauty; stern yet frail she seemed, and utterly forsaken. Something about her cried out to him and if he dared, he would have put his arms about her, anything to bring a spark of life back into those flat grey eyes.

Faramir knew not who she was, nor did he care. He only saw one who ached within as he ached. Though she said not one word to him, nor even glanced his way, he felt a strong connection between them. He sat with her for a long while and spoke to her of things he had not yet spoken to anyone. To her silence, he unburdened his heart until Ioreth's maids came at the noon hour and led the woman away.

In the following two days Faramir found himself more oft than not in the gardens, for there the White Lady was to be found, sitting in solitude on her bench facing east.

Each day it was the same. Ioreth's maids brought her out shortly after breakfast and left her sitting in the sun. As soon as the attendants departed, Faramir would take his seat upon the woman's right so that he might hold the hand of her uninjured arm.

Never did she speak or seem aware of him in any way, yet he believed his presence was felt. The first day her eyes had been utterly vacant but now, at times, he would catch a shadow of awareness. Occasionally, her brow would furrow as if she pondered unpleasant thoughts.

It was at these times he would take her cold hand in his own and speak to her of glad things, and in time, her brow would smooth.

Each day the attendants left her a little longer in his company and for this, he was grateful for he took much comfort in the Lady's presence. Although she did not respond in anyway, he persisted in speaking to her as if she listened intently. He spoke of his childhood, his family, his loves and hates. He spoke of his sorrows and dreams. He spoke of absolutely anything that came to mind for he found the more he spoke, the more his heart was unburdened.

x x x x x

On the seventh day following the departure of the King's Host for Mordor, Éowyn awoke to a morning filled with sunshine. The sun! How long it seemed since she had last seen its rays!

She sat up in bed to find herself in a strange room. Her left arm ached but not overly so and she glanced down to see it splinted. At the sight of her arm, a veil lifted from her mind and the events of the battle came flooding back.

She grieved for Théoden, but was glad he had met a proud and valiant end. She recalled, too, with wonder the valor of the Halfling and hoped he had somehow managed to survive. She also recalled her battle with the Nazgûl but now found she could look the memory in the eye rather than flinch away.

It was the present that confused her. She remembered being injured, she remembered being called back from the Darkness, and she remembered Éomer speaking to her. The rest was as a dream.

She felt she had been wandering lost in a world of grey mists. She knew she had not been asleep for knowledge of certain things penetrated the fog. She knew, for instance, that Éomer had gone with the King's Host and that she should be angry for being left behind, yet she found the business of being angry just too taxing.

She also knew that someone had been talking to her about a great many things, important things, but she could not recall what they were now, nor who had been speaking.

With a shake of her head, she threw back the bedclothes and rose, amazed at how rested she felt. She looked about her room but found no suitable clothing. The sun streamed through the window, beckoning to her and she felt an urgent desire to be up and about. The army may have left without her but she refused to spend another moment in idleness.

At that moment, the door opened and a young woman entered bearing a tray with a bowl of porridge. Shocked to see Éowyn up, she fairly fled the room when Éowyn dismissed her, demanding a, "proper breakfast" and clothes.

Swiftly the woman returned bearing a tray piled with eggs and bacon, bread and butter. "Ale! Is there no ale to be had here? Off with you and bring me a tankard!" Éowyn commanded, smiling broadly at the woman's dismay.

"Yes mi'lady, right away, mi'lady."

"And fetch me something decent to wear; I can hardly go about in my night robe!" Éowyn called after her. With a sigh of pleasure, she tucked into her breakfast for she found she had a voracious appetite. She did not stop until every morsel had vanished.

The young woman soon returned with clothing. "If mistress is finished, I will help you dress."

"I can dress myself, thank you." Éowyn replied. "Only my arm is broken, not my wits."

"Yes mi'lady," the woman curtseyed, making ready to leave.

"Wait," Éowyn said. "What house is this and who is Master here?"

"These be the Houses of Healing, Lady. The Warden is Master here."

"Then please tell the Warden I would speak with him directly, as soon as I am finished here."

"Yes, mi'lady," and with that the attendant scurried off, a smile lighting her eyes.

x x x x x

The Warden of the Houses of Healing was not at all pleased to be hurried through the halls in search of Lord Faramir by a very whirlwind of a woman.

Lady Éowyn burst in upon him demanding tidings of the war. What happened to the wraith of yesterday? Despite the inconvenience of being rousted from his study, he was pleased indeed to see the Lady recovered and asking for—nay, demanding a vocation.

They found Lord Faramir at last, walking alone in the garden. "My Lord," the Warden called, hastening forward. "This is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with King Théoden, her uncle, and was sorely hurt in battle. She is now in my care but she is not content and would speak to you."

Hearing his name, Faramir turned and started with shock at the sight of his silent White Lady striding towards him with fire in her eyes and a firm set to her jaw. He carefully schooled his features into neutrality for it was clear the woman recognized him not at all.

"My Lord," Éowyn said, "do not misunderstand, I am no ingrate. Fair is this house and grateful am I for the care I have received here, but I must find a task to put my hand to 'ere I go mad. I have never been able to abide a prison; indeed, I went to battle seeking death in order to escape one, yet I find I live while the war wages on."

Faramir frowned at the Lady's bald words; with a gesture, he dismissed the Warden. Prior to this morning, he had not sought out the Lady's identity. Now much became clear, if what he had heard was true, this mere slip of a woman had slain the Lord of the Nazgûl. That she lived was miracle enough, that she had regained her mind left him in awe.

"My Lord?" Éowyn asked when the man continued to stare.

"Forgive me, Lady, but what would you have me do? I too, am in the care of the Warden and subject to his will. Tell me what you wish and if it lies in my power I will do it."

Éowyn studied the man before her. He was very fair to the eye but it was obvious he was a man hardened by war and well the match of the fiercest amongst the Rohirrim. Grave tenderness was in his eyes but his bearing spoke of one accustomed to command.

"I would have you tell this Warden to let me go free." Though she spoke with a steady voice, she felt a moment's panic. Did she really desire what she asked? Where was there for her to go? The man before her may have a gentle heart beneath his grave exterior, but she did not want him to take her for a fool.

"As I said, Lady I, myself, am recovering from injury and am in the Warden's keeping, nor have I yet taken up my responsibility as Steward of this city. And even if I had, I would council you to remain here."

"But I am no invalid! My arm mends. I need no nursemaids. I wish to go to war and avenge my king."

"My Lady, you are too late. The army is seven days gone and there have been no tidings. I fear there is naught any of us can do but abide the waiting with what patience we might find. If it is death you truly seek, then you may yet find your chance here within this city 'ere long."

"Seven days?" Éowyn gasped, "But that is impossible. It was just yesterday that—that—".

"Nay, I fear not." The Battle of the Pelennor was eight days ago. The King's Host marched the very next day."

"But, where—what—what have I been doing all this time?"

Gently Faramir guided Éowyn to a bench as the blood drained dangerously from her face. "You were gravely wounded in battle. I hear many suffer from an odd malady of the spirit brought on by the Nazgûl. The healers are calling it the "Black Breath" and those afflicted wander lost in dreams, unaware of their surroundings.

Éowyn glanced at Faramir sharply. "Are you saying I was one so afflicted?"

"I have a confession to make, Lady. This is not the first time we have met. I made your acquaintance several days ago in these very gardens, although I did not know your name until now."

"But I do not know you Sir, and would swear we have never met."

Faramir smiled and it transformed his noble face, lending it an almost boyish cast. "Worry not, for I hope that now we have met, you will never forget me."

To Éowyn's shock and utter disgust, she felt herself blush. A fair and glib tongue this one had indeed! "I would know the reason I do not recollect you, if what you say is true."

The smile faded from Faramir's face. "Do you truly remember nothing of the last few days?"

"Nay, all I remember is fog and darkness. Why, is there ought else I should recall?"

"It is of no matter." Faramir said, ruefully shaking his head.

Éowyn studied him a moment. "It seems to be of great import to you. I would hear what you know—please."

Faramir sighed, raising his eyes to gaze over the wall towards the east. "The first day I saw you, I thought you were a statue, so pale and still you sat upon this very bench. You were so lost within yourself that you were unaware of anything around you.

"I sat beside you that first morning because there was something about you that cried out for companionship. For the next few days, until yesterday in fact, I would find you here every morning and so I sat with you and talked to you and tried desperately to reach you within the prison of your mind. Lady, you have no idea how overjoyed I am to see you free of your prison!"

Éowyn's brow furrowed. "I do remember someone talking to me, someone was telling me something important, something terribly sad—was that you?"

Faramir nodded, "I fear I prattled incessantly about a great many things—whatever came to mind actually. The sound of my voice seemed to sooth you."

Éowyn turned to face the extraordinary man beside her. She had truly never met anyone like him and she knew not what to say. "My Lord, you are too kind. I thank you for the time and care you have given me."

The dazzling smile lit Faramir's face again and Éowyn felt her heart lurch reluctantly in response. "No thanks is required, Lady for the pleasure is truly all mine. I had much to get off my chest and you were a very indulgent listener."

For a few moments, the two fell silent, content to listen to the bird song. Of a sudden, Éowyn's head came up. "You just lost your father—nay, not just your father, but your brother too."

"Aye" Faramir said softly.

"I am sorry for your loss, my Lord. I have heard of your father—he was said to be a wise and foresighted man. I did have the good fortune though to meet Boromir many months ago when he passed through Rohan whilst journeying north." Éowyn laid her hand upon his arm. Faramir covered it in a warm grasp.

"Thank you, Lady. Though sad be the subject, I am glad to see you begin to regain your memory."

"I remember that at least," Éowyn replied, "and of how when you were a boy, you loved listening to Gandalf's stories, although Boromir had not the patience and would fall asleep."

"Aye," laughed Faramir, tears shining in his eyes, "**'**tis true."

Éowyn smiled wistfully, "Gandalf always did have the best tales. My favorites were ones about great battles."

"Why am I not surprised?" Faramir chuckled.

Éowyn cocked her head, glancing at him imperiously, which served only to further broaden the Steward's smile. "I find nothing wrong with that, sir. What stories were your favorites then?"

"Oh, I suppose anything about Elves. Ever have I been fascinated by them for as long as I can recall—enchanted, Boromir used to say; bewitched of course, according to my father."

"Have you ever met one? Éowyn asked.

Faramir sighed, a far off look in his eye. "Nay, though I still wish to very much."

"Well, I have."

"Truly?" Faramir looked upon her with wonder. "What were they like? Are they as fair and wise as legend tells?"

"It was just one that I met and aye, he is fairer than anyone or anything I have ever seen. I think he is very wise as well, though he would never admit it."

"Lady, I am deeply envious," Faramir laughed, "consorting as you have with my childhood dreams! You speak as if you know this Elf very well. I would hear this rare tale of Rohan."

Éowyn smiled. "There is no tale to tell, I am afraid. I met this Elf but once and spoke with him only briefly. He was companion to Gandalf and Aragorn, heir of Isildur; his path and fate is joined to that of your king—if he yet lives. As for what he was like, I believe his kind are rather above mere mortal likes and dislikes. He seemed fair and fierce, grave and merry all at the same time. If ever we meet again, I shall introduce you."

"I would like that very much." Faramir said.

Éowyn grew silent; for thoughts of Legolas were painful reminders that that the war waged on while she did nothing. A tear sprang to her eye and fell glistening.

Faramir tipped her chin up, catching the tear with his thumb. "Why so sad of a sudden? I was getting used to your smile."

Éowyn did not answer, nor did she pull away. As Faramir gazed at her, something within seemed to soften ever so slightly.

"For a moment I almost forgot my woes," she said sadly. "But they are still with me. I cannot accept my fate, my Lord. The war still calls me. If I stay here, I fear I will wither."

"Nay, if you stay here, you will grow strong again." Faramir replied, unconsciously stroking the smooth skin of her jaw. "If you stay in this house, and walk in this garden and look east with hope in your eyes—not this longing of yours for death that I see so plain; then you will find me here watching and waiting and hoping. It would ease my heart if you would speak with me from time to time."

Éowyn grew aware for the man sitting close beside her; of the gentle, calming touch of his fingers on her skin. Resolutely her spine stiffened as she withdrew. "Forgive me, Lord, but I desire not the speech of living men. How then should I ease your care?"

Faramir would not be deterred by neither cold tone nor fiery lights in the lovely grey eyes. This lady fascinated and moved him as none other ever had. Though it was clear she desperately needed loving care, he suffered no illusions as to how his efforts would be received. Nonetheless, he was her match in will and stubbornness.

"Would you have my plain answer?" he asked.

"I would."

"Then I say to you, Lady of Rohan, that you are fair, more beautiful than any maiden ever born of Gondor. Perhaps fairer even than among Elf-kind. It may be that we only have a few precious days or even a few precious hours left **'**ere darkness falls upon us. I hope to stand strong and face the end with courage, but it would ease my heart if while the sun still shines, holding back the dark, that I may still see you. You and I both passed under Shadow, and the same hand brought us both back. I would not see that effort wasted."

"Alas, it cannot be as you wish. Look to me not for healing for I am a shieldmaiden and my touch is not gentle. I have shed the blood of countless foes I am a slayer of chil—". Of a sudden, Éowyn leapt to her feet, Faramir rising with her in alarm.

"Nay!" she cried, holding her hand before her in warning. "Do not come nearer; do not touch me for I am unclean!"

"Éowyn, be at ease. There is no need to be so distraught." Faramir said gently, holding his hands out to her.

"You do not understand!" she cried, angry tears rolling down her cheeks as the damn within her burst at last. "I have touched Darkness and now it fills me—consumes me. There is no room within me for Light—nor do I want it. Do not do this to me. If you care ought at all, then leave me be."

"Éowyn, I do not understand. How can I help if you will not explain? What have I done to cause you such pain?"

"You—you would give me a reason to live!" With that she dashed passed him, running for the House.

Faramir stared after her helplessly. When he returned to the House he summoned the Warden and heard all he could tell of the Lady of Rohan.

When the Warden told all he knew, he suggested that Faramir speak with the Halfling for he had ridden with Théoden's household. For many hours, Merry spoke with Faramir. At last, he began to understand something of her grief and despair.

x x x x x

Éowyn tossed and turned. Although it was only mid afternoon, she could not shake the weariness that had come upon her and so she had sought her bed.

She slept but her dreams were uneasy. She wandered a desolate battlefield where every corpse bore the face of a loved one. Weeping, she made her way to a great mound and found Théoden lying there. Kneeling at his side, she smoothed the hair from his cold face.

Théoden's eyes opened at her touch. "I know you," he rasped.

"Aye uncle, it is Éowyn. Did I not tell thee I would be at thy side should you fall?"

"You belong where I left you—with our people—seeing to their welfare at Dunharrow! Who now will protect them when the Enemy comes? Foolish girl! You have abandoned our people and left them to be slaughtered!"

"Nay, nay Uncle, I but—" Éowyn stammered.

"You but what?" spoke a cold voice behind her. Éowyn turned. The Haradrim boy stood behind her, his death wound gaping obscenely.

"Nay, you cannot live!" she gasped. "Be gone shade!"

"Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey," the boy spoke, the foul voice of the Witch-king coming from out his mouth, "or I shall slay thee in thy turn. Shall I bear you away to the Houses of Lamentation, beyond all darkness, where your flesh shall be devoured and thy shriveled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye?"

Éowyn fell back, raising her shield as the boy swung a great black mace. A shriek rife with corruption rent the air and she found herself awake and sitting up in bed, sweat streaming down her face, her throat raw from the scream wrenched from it.

Shaking, she climbed out of bed. She could not stay there. Never had she felt so trapped, so desperate, so alone. Her heart hammered beneath her breast as she raced for the gardens. Outside, the day had turned grey and drear. A cold wind blew out of the north, slicing her to the bone.

Coming to the east wall, she clambered up awkwardly and stood tottering on its edge. Somewhere to the east lay the Black Gate, surely she could see it from on top the wall. The wind buffeted her, and her gaze was drawn downward. The Houses of Healing were set high up in the city and the drop from her ledge was a far one. She stared mesmerized at the ground far below.

"What do you look for, Éowyn, Éomund's daughter? What do you seek?" Éowyn froze but dared not turn. "Is it death you truly seek or escape? They need not be the same." Faramir spoke gently behind her.

"Stay—stay away. You know nothing of my heart—nothing of how I feel."

"Think you the only one to hurt, Éowyn? Do you think it was easy for me growing up in the shadow of Boromir? I was less than nothing in my father's eyes. I begged him to send me to Rivendell in my brother's stead. Instead, I was ridiculed for attempting to steal an opportunity to "prove my quality". If he had listened to me, Boromir would still be alive!

"He punished me by sending me to take back Osgiliath, knowing full well it was a fruitless cause. He knowingly sent me to my death and yet, when I was dragged back poisoned from an arrow he refused to believe I lived. In his madness, he tried to burn me alive so that the Enemy would not have me. What manner of father could commit such atrocities?

"Say not to me that I know nothing of your pain, for I know it far too well. We all fight our own demons, Éowyn. Death is easy; it is living that is hard."

"But, but I never dreamt it would prove _this _hard," she said shakily.

Faramir smiled amidst his tears. "Aye, perhaps it is the hardest thing we will ever do. Surviving requires the greatest strength and you, Éowyn, are strong!"

"Nay, I am not. Besides, the end is upon us. What is there left to live for?"

"Would you not find out how the story ends?"

Éowyn paused at that. There was something so sincere and honest in Faramir's face that she found herself giving in to his reasoning.

"Come down, my Lady." Faramir coaxed, holding his arms out to her.

Not unto the day she died could Éowyn ever recall how she ended up down off that wall and into the safety of Faramir's arms. The moment her feet touched the ground she found herself enfolded in arms strong as iron. Feeling safe for perhaps the first time in her life, she wept long and hard. She was unaware of the passing of time or that she had been wrapped in a warm cloak of deepest midnight spangled with stars.

Faramir held Éowyn through the storm of tears. When the cloak he had sent an attendant to fetch arrived, he wrapped it about her, still keeping her close. Softly he spoke soothing words in her ear. He would calm her, but he would also give her something to hold onto.

"Seven days have they been gone and yet no tidings, and in all that time I have never known such joy or such pain. I beg thee, think not ill of me, Éowyn, but I must confess to thee, these last days have been the greatest joy to me for they brought you into my life, yet it has also been a time of greatest pain, for I fear we now come to the Darkest Hour. I would not have this world end now that I have found you."

"Nay, say not so," Éowyn wept. "I can never be what you wish. I can never give you what you want. Evil taints me. I have committed monstrous deeds!"

"As have we all in these dark days," Faramir answered.

"Nay, there is no excuse for my atrocities."

"Tell me, and let me be the judge of that."

Éowyn shook her head, trying to pull away but Faramir held her firm by the shoulders. "Very well," she said, steeling herself. "There was—a boy, a child—he could not have been more than eleven or twelve. He came at me with a sword and I—I—". Shuddering, she balled her fists in Faramir's robe, refusing to raise her eyes.

"It is hard when the enemy wears an innocent face. I understand your pain, Éowyn, for it harries me as well. It is true that the Enemy recruits children amongst the Southrons and Easterlings. I have been forced to slay a few as well—it was unavoidable. But believe me, he would have given you no quarter."

"It does not make it right!" she spat.

"Nay, the only thing that may end the madness is the destruction of the Dark Lord. Then no child will ever need go to war again."

Éowyn slowly calmed and for a long while she stood allowing Faramir to hold her close. Though the wind had fallen, the day was still strangely dark and still. No sounds of the city below came to them. It was as if the world were holding its breath.

"We wait for the stroke of doom." Éowyn breathed. Faramir tightened his arms about her in answer.

Suddenly far to the east, the darkness rose like a vast mountain of water, a great wave poised to crash upon the world. A tremor ran through the earth and the walls of the city quivered. A sound not unlike a sigh went up from the land and it seemed all the world breathed again.

"What was that?" Éowyn asked. "Is the Darkness coming?"

"I do not know," answered Faramir. "My mind tells me great evil has befallen, yet my heart says nay. Can you not feel it? Hope and joy are in the very air!"

"Aye, but I do not understand." Éowyn replied.

Faramir suddenly stood back, awe on his face. "What is this joy I feel?" he cried. Turning, he lifted Éowyn into the air and spun her about. "Éowyn, Éowyn, in this hour I do not believe the Darkness will endure!" Setting her back on her feet, he stooped and kissed her brow.

Éowyn, too amazed to do ought but stand, just stared at him. Loath though she was to accept it, tendrils of hope began twining their way about her heart. Finally, the Darkness, which had filled her soul for so long, began to lift.

Together they stood hand in hand on the walls of the city. A great wind rose up mingling their hair in its fingers. The Shadow departed and the sun shone forth with a brilliant light, bedazzling the waters of the Anduin. All across the city, joyful voices rose in song, though none knew yet for what they rejoiced.

From out the east a great eagle flew. As it reached the city, it circled crying its glad tidings.

"Sing now; ye people of the Tower of Anor,

for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,

and the Dark Tower is thrown down."

Tears fell from Éowyn's eyes, but for once, they were happy tears.

x x x x x x


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The days that followed passed swiftly and spring flowed into summer. Faramir took up his duties as Steward if only for a short time. The city must be readied for the return of the King, and glad he was for the task.

Merry was summoned to the field of Cormallen and though he was loath to leave the Lady Éowyn, his heart was fair to bursting in its desire to see Pippin, Frodo and Sam.

Éomer sent several letters to Éowyn each begging her to come to Cormallen, but she courteously refused each time. Instead, she remained in the Houses of Healing and helped where she could with the wounded.

All around her rejoiced but shadow still touched her heart. She knew the real reason she refused to leave the city and that reason rankled her sorely. Éomer it was who had begged her come—not Aragorn.

Another thing which saddened her, although she refused to admit it, was that she saw little these days of Faramir. On the one hand, she appreciated how busy he was, on the other; she could not help but feel a little sorry for herself. Now that the war was over, she felt abandoned and unneeded.

While all around her bloomed, she withered yet again and withdrew into herself. The Warden grew concerned and sent word to Lord Faramir.

One warm fair day he came to her in the gardens and together they stood again on the walls looking east. "I hear you are a great help to the healers." Faramir spoke, in an effort to break the silence.

"More a hindrance than a help if you ask Ioreth," Éowyn replied. "What brings you here, Lord, when you have far more important tasks demanding your time?"

Faramir sighed. "There is nothing more important to me than visiting you, my Lady."

"Come now, Lord, you have an entire city to manage and make ready. You flatter me too much."

"Éowyn—nay, I will not let you twist my words with your clever tongue. If I have been absent these weeks you must know it was not from choice."

Éowyn tried to hold onto her irritation but found she could not. Faramir was an honest soul and deserved better of her.

"Why are you still here and not in Cormallen with your brother?" he asked softly, watching the play of emotions cross her face.

"Do you not know?"

"I have my suspicions," he replied. "Perhaps you do not go because it was but Éomer who called you and not another. Or perhaps you do not go because I remain here and a part of you yet desires to be near me—though that is more than I dare to hope."

"I do not wish to play games, speak plainer!" Éowyn replied, agitation edging her voice.

"You would have me speak plain? Very well then, do you not love me, Éowyn, or _will_ you not?"

Éowyn turned her full attention upon Faramir. She knew not what to say. She desperately wished to spare this man further pain, yet neither could she bring herself to lead him astray.

"I wish the love of another," she answered truthfully.

Faramir gazed down at her, his eyes unreadable. "I know. You desired the love of Isildur's heir for he is proud and noble and all you deem admirable in a man. You wished to align yourself with him for then you would have had the renown and glory you always craved. But when he gave you only pity you decided you would have nothing and no one, except death. Nay, Éowyn, do not turn away—look at me!"

Éowyn whirled about and faced him. She was furious but not with him—never with him. In a few curt words, he summed up her heart and she found it small and mean.

"I understand you Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, maybe better than you understand yourself. I do not offer you pity for you are a lady high and proud and have done great deeds and have won renown. Maybe once I pitied you for your sorrow, but even were you sorrowless, and not proud and valiant and fairer than words may tell, I would still—" Faramir turned away towards the wall, his hands gripping the stone.

"You would still what?" Éowyn asked softly.

Faramir turned just his head and looked at her long and steady, steeling his heart for the blow he felt must surely come. "I would still love you. Éowyn. Do you not love me, even but a little?"

She gazed at Faramir for a long while, and what she saw, as ever, amazed her. Here was a man: noble and proud, fierce and wise, and with a heart wider and truer than any other she had known. She knew not what more she could possibly want. Her greatest desire had ever been to be loved and cherished as her father had loved and cherished her mother—and here was a man who offered all that and more—yet she was afraid.

"I know not what the future may bring, nor can I promise my heart when I do not yet understand it. But I will say to you that today I stand in the sun, no longer in shadow. Today I am a shieldmaiden, no more. I desire now to be a healer. I no longer wish to be a queen."

"That is well then," Faramir laughed uncertainly, "for I am no king."

Éowyn smiled, "If you will grant me time, Lord, I believe I can come to love you."

Faramir took her hands within his own and raised them to his lips. "Then time you shall have, White Lady of Rohan. For you, I would wait until the ending of the world."

x x x x x

Again, the days passed swiftly but now Éowyn found them full and her time not her own. Since she had long been mistress of Théoden's hall, she possessed great skill in managing a household. Faramir was quick to recognize her talents and enlisted her aid in readying Minas Tirith.

People now flooded into the city from all parts of Gondor. Provisions and lodgings needed finding repairs to walls and dwellings escalated. Faramir found himself delegating more and more to Éowyn and she rose to the challenge.

Not only did she enjoy having a task at last to put her hand to, she also had to admit she was enjoying the time spent in Faramir's company. She was still unsure of her heart, but the young Steward intrigued her and was most adept at making her laugh—an occupation he set himself to with great fervor for he loved the sound of her rich, bell-like laughter more than any music.

At last, one fine day at dawn, the Captains of the West led their hosts towards the city. Rank followed rank as they came before the gateway, the sun sparkling off armor, the cheers of the crowds assembled about the walls loud in the bright morning air.

A barrier was laid across the entrance to the city. Faramir, Steward of Minas Tirith, stood with Húrin, Warden of Keys, and other captains of Gondor. There, too, stood Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, with Elfhelm, the Marshall, and many knights of the Mark.

A hush fell as from out the host stepped the Dúnedain garbed in silver and grey. Before them solemnly came Lord Aragorn, Isildur's heir. Over black mail, he wore a mantle of white, clasped at the throat by a green jewel. With him were Gandalf, robed in white; Prince Imrahil Éomer of Rohan; Legolas of the Elves; Gimli of Erebor and four small figures who drew the eye of all for they were Halflings, fierce and valiant in their own right.

And so, at last, after years of wondering, after hardship and battle, Aragorn son of Arathorn, received the key to his city and the winged crown of his forefathers. Frodo, the Halfling, came forward bearing the crown and Aragorn sank to one knee as Gandalf placed it upon his head. As he rose, the people cried aloud their joy and such was the clamor as to shake the very walls of the city. The King at long last, was come home.

Éowyn gazed long upon Aragorn as tears flowed down her cheeks. He caught her glance and smiled. Éowyn smiled back and knew then that she was at last healed of all sorrows. For as she looked upon Gondor's King all she felt was joy, admiration and the sincere hope for friendship. She found it was more than enough.

x x x x x

All throughout the day, Minas Tirith celebrated. Upon the fields of the Pelennor tents and pavilions sprang up in a city of their own and such revelry was in the air as to gladden any heart.

Sunset found Éowyn walking the open space of the Citadel as she found herself in need of a few quiet moments to herself before the commencement of the coronation feast. Her day had been a whirlwind, what with her brother's return and her duties aiding Faramir in overseeing the festivities, she had not a moment to herself.

Walking to the wall, she gazed out over the Pelennor. It was hard now to imagine the green fields as a battleground. As the sun westered, all turned to gold and the Anduin blazed as it flowed south to the sea.

"Mae govannen, Éowyn, Elf-friend."

Startled, Éowyn jumped but did not yet turn at the sound of the melodious voice. "Greetings, Master Legolas, I did not hear you approach."

Legolas smiled serenely, but there was a wicked glint to his eye. "What brings you here to this lonely spot when there is much gay company to be had elsewhere?"

"Perhaps I need catch my breath from such company; and what of you, why are you here?"

"Did I not say unto you that we would meet again 'ere the ending of all days?"

"That is not what I meant, and well you know it, Master Elf." Éowyn laughed, turning her full attention now upon the Elf. She almost gasped aloud at the transformation in the warrior.

Legolas stood tall and regal, garbed head to foot in flowing robes of deep green worked with silver thread. Girding his waist was a wide silk sash of grey embroidered in an intricate swirling pattern. His long hair fell free, held back by a gleaming circlet worked in the same unusual pattern. Gone was the battle worn warrior. Here was an Elf as rare and fine as any Faramir could dream.

"You seem surprised to see me, mellon nín."

Éowyn tore her eyes away abashed. "It—it, nay—" she stammered, only causing the Elf's smile to broaden. "Your appearance merely took me by surprise, 'tis all. Do all Elves go about garbed so finely, as a matter of course?"

"Nay, we of Lasgalen are a simple folk in truth. Kinsman came to me in Cormallen bearing news of home as well as a much needed change of clothing or two. Glad I was to see them for I was not looking forward to begging off the sons of Elrond. They are shorter than I, though they will not admit it."

"A fine change of clothes your kinsman brought you, indeed." Éowyn laughed.

"Aye. Fortunately, my father had the presence of mind to send something suitable for a coronation and other high occasions."

"Suitable? More princely robes I have never seen! Who is you father that he should be so concerned with how his son looks among mere mortal company?"

Legolas tugged uncomfortably at the stiff collar of his robes. "Thranduil Oropherion is my father—Aran Thranduil."

"Aran?" Éowyn asked, a queer feeling settling in her stomach as she eyed the beautiful silver circlet on the Elf's brow.

"It means, king." Legolas replied softly. "Thranduil Oropherion is my king. He is also my father."

"You are a prince!" Éowyn gasped, wishing the stone would swallow her whole and end this final mortification.

"Aye, but what of it? It does not change who I am. I am still as I have ever been, Legolas of Lasgalen, the same Elf you met in Edoras. It matters naught."

Éowyn brought her hands to her flaming cheeks. "Oh! I will die of shame, I just know it; bad enough was it to have offered myself to a total stranger, worse still to an Elf, and utterly unforgivable to a—a—prince!"

Legolas laughed gently. "Not this again? Did I not say unto you to consider the matter forgotten?"

"Forgotten? How can I ever forget _that _particular conversation? I fear I will carry it to my grave."

Legolas grinned, his eyes twinkling merrily. "One day, long from now, we shall look back on this and laugh. I, for my part, for being flattered beyond all reason and you—"

"For being a complete and utter fool," Éowyn moaned.

"I would say rather, for being a frightened, lonely young woman standing on the precipice of war. For that is all it was, nothing more. For my part again, the matter is forgotten."

"You are blushing."

Legolas drew himself up to his full height, little realizing how closely he resembled his formidable father in that moment. "My Lady, I will have you know, I never blush."

"I see," Éowyn laughed, "then your cheeks are naturally that shade of pink? My dear Elf, I will have _you_ know, you are blushing now almost as furiously as you did when you spurned my most generous offer."

Legolas muttered a stream of lyrical tones.

"Very well, my friend, I vow never to bring this matter up again, if you do."

"Agreed," Legolas readily replied.

For a time the two stood in companionable silence, watching as the sun set.

"So, now the Enemy is destroyed and peace come at last. How goes it with you, Éowyn? Last I saw you, you lay under Shadow and Aragorn despaired of calling you back. A long night's vigil that was, and one I hope never again to endure."

"You were there?" Éowyn said, amazed.

"Of course, as were Gimli and Mithrandir. Long we strove to aid Aragorn. Gimli held you fast as your arm was set, while Mithrandir strove to keep the Enemy from gaining further hold of your soul. Unfortunately, I am no healer and am afraid I could do no more than sing to you.

Nonetheless, it seemed to calm you and so Aragorn was at last able to reach you."

"I had no idea." Éowyn replied. "You have my deepest thanks."

"And so I ask again, how goes it with you? I would know the full outcome of our labors."

Éowyn found she could not look away from the Elf. "I am nearly recovered as you can see. My arm is a bit stiff but gains strength by the day."

"I mean not the physical, but in here." Legolas replied, laying his hand upon his heart.

Éowyn thought upon this a moment. How _was _she, truly? Finally, she smiled, like sun after a rain-shower. "I am fine. For the first time since I can remember, I—feel fine. No longer do I wish to prove my worth. I am content and if the truth be known, I am happy to be a shieldmaiden no more."

"So I see. There is calm within you now, where before I felt turmoil. There is also something else I sense." Legolas smiled mischievously again. "I could not help but notice earlier, that you unfold like a bud in the warmth of the sun whenever the Steward of Minas Tirith is nigh."

"I do no such thing!" Éowyn gasped.

"Alas, but you do. Neither of you can stop staring when you think the other is looking elsewhere. Lord Faramir is quite taken with you, at least in as much as I can perceive from a distance. I have yet to make his acquaintance formally and so can say no more."

"He claims to love me." Éowyn said soberly, bowing her head.

Legolas gazed at her intently. When she did not raise her eyes, he lifted her chin with one fine-boned finger. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I know not," Éowyn whispered. "I am confused and afraid."

"Of what, tithen pen?"

Éowyn bit her lip. "Of not being able to return his love, of not being worthy of it." If Éowyn expected the Elf to laugh or scoff at her fears, she was gladly mistaken.

"Your fears are quite natural and to be expected." He said at last. "It must be a daunting thing to hold another's heart in one's hands. Have a care for the gift you have been given, for there is nothing more precious in all creation."

Éowyn glanced up at Legolas, seeking answers in his twilight grey eyes. "What should I do? Faramir is a good man, fair and noble, with a heart truer than any I have ever known. I would not hurt him. He saved me from the darkness that all but devoured me. He was the rock I clung to in the storm. Tell me, Legolas, what should I do?"

Legolas stroked her cheek, smiling gently. "Go not to the Elves for council, for we will say both yea—and nay." Éowyn frowned. "Very well," Legolas laughed. "If you insist on my council I will say but this. Follow your heart, not your mind. In this matter, your heart will prove the wiser of the two. Do not analyze or second guess but act decisively and swiftly."

"But, what if—"

The Elf silenced her with a light finger upon her lips. "There are no "_what_ _if's"_," he said shaking his head, "there is only _what is_. The question you must ask yourself is do you have the courage to face what is in your heart and are you strong enough to accept the burden of responsibility that will bring?"

Legolas released Éowyn and turned to gaze out over the Pelennor. She watched him avidly as his eyes followed the Anduin as it flowed south to the distant sea. As his eyes followed the river's course, a strange stillness came over him. A haunted look, one of equal parts longing, despair and hunger entered his eyes. For a moment, Éowyn grew afraid for the Elf, for he seemed utterly lost and alone.

"Legolas, what is it," she asked, laying her hand upon his arm. When he did not answer, she shook him gently. "Legolas, are you well?"

"I envy you, child of Eorl," the Elf sighed. "For you, in your brief span of time upon this earth, have been granted that which I have waited for, for nigh on three thousand years; the gift of the one who will love you forever, who would bind their feä to yours for all eternity. But, perhaps my time of waiting comes soon to an end."

"What do you mean?" Éowyn asked urgently for there was something in the Elf's eyes as he gazed towards the south and the sea that caused her to fear for this fair being. Something clearly was amiss. She sensed in some way the Elf and been wounded deeply, and was not yet healed.

"There is no cure for what afflicts me, mellon nín," he replied, reading the thought in her mind. "My doom is upon me, and my days in Middle Earth numbered." Tearing his eyes away, he glanced down at her. "I have heard at last the cry of the gull and in that cry is the Call of the Sea—that which none of my kind may long resist once hearing it."

"I do not understand. What ails you, I see no hurt? How may I help?"

Legolas smiled sadly, "Ulmo, Lord of the Sea, sings to me, calling me home."

Éowyn shook her head, "But you are an Elf of the wood, the Prince of Lasgalen. What has the sea to do with ought?"

"The home of all Elves lies across the Sea, in Valinor. We but tarry on these shores for a brief time. Once we hear the Song of Ulmo, we cannot long deny the summons of the Valar. Soon, I must depart and leave all that I love most behind."

"Nay!" Éowyn cried, throwing her arms about the prince. She cared not if any saw them; she only knew that she was soon to lose something precious, not just to her but also to all Middle Earth. For the first time she began to understand what the victory over the Enemy actually meant to the Elves—and a two-edged blade that cut deep was it, indeed. "Nay Legolas, I beg thee, do not go. Not yet, I cannot bear it. Not now that I have just come to know thee! Please, I beg thee, do not leave yet."

Legolas sighed, gently stroking the shieldmaiden's hair. "Truly, would my leaving grieve thee so?"

"Aye," she cried. "I would not lose our friendship so soon. Besides, I promised Faramir to introduce you."

"Well," The Prince of Lasgalen laughed, and at last, the strained tone left his voice. "I suppose I can stay long enough to meet your future husband."

"Future husband?" Éowyn gasped. "I said nothing of husbands!"

Legolas tipped her chin up, "perhaps not yet."

Éowyn scowled, "Well, if I am to marry Faramir, as you are so convinced, then you cannot possibly think of leaving for a very long while."

"And why is that?"

"For I will have my children know an Elf firsthand."

Legolas laughed, "So spake Aragorn unto me. Very well, I shall make thee this promise. I shall not depart these shores until all mortals that I love dear pass beyond the Circles of the World. Will that suffice?"

"Aye, so you best prepare to remain for a very long while, for I do not plan on dying for a long, long time—not 'til I am old and withered."

Legolas cupped Éowyn's face. "That, child, shall still be but a brief span of years to me, yet gladly will I tarry here until my promise be fulfilled."

x x x x x

End of Part Three: To Be Continued

From "The Return of the King", J.R.R Tolkien

mellon nín: my friend

aran: king

tithen pen: little one


	8. Chapter 8

Epilogue

Life flowed on and Éowyn found herself caught up in its swift current. Many wondrous things came to pass, many of which she could never have foreseen.

Aragorn, King of Gondor, at last wed his beloved Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond, and amongst the many events occurring in Éowyn's life, one of the most surprising was the relationship formed between Éowyn, herself, and the King and Queen of Gondor.

In Aragorn, she discovered another brother; but yet utterly unforeseen was the love that grew between Éowyn and the Queen, for in Arwen, Éowyn found a true friend and confidant. In time, the Lady of the Shield-arm would become chief among the Queen's Ladies.

Borne home to Edoras, Théoden King was laid to rest amongst his fathers. Éomer was crowned and though he gained a kingdom, he lost his heart to the Princess of Dol Amroth. It was at King Elessar's wedding that Éomer met Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil, and fell in love. And so it came to pass that in the last year of the Third Age, Éomer and Lothiriel announced a date upon which they would marry, and Éowyn found herself blessed with a sister, who she loved with all her fierce heart.

After Théoden was laid to rest, many those Éowyn held dear took their leave. Meriadoc Brandybuck and his cousins returned to their home in the Shire, although he was still sworn to serve the King of the Mark and vowed to return to visit as soon as may be.

Legolas returned to his home in Lasgalen, taking with him Gimli, for the two were now quite inseparable. Sad was that parting but Aragorn assured her that the two would return, for Gimli had promised to bring Dwarves from the Mountain to repair the stonework of Minas Tirith, and Legolas had pledged to return with Elves of the Wood to create gardens such as the White City had never seen. Legolas had also a greater task charged him by Aragorn for the King had granted him the woodlands of Southern Ithilien. Long had those lands lain under Shadow but by the grace and skill of the Elves they would be healed to flourish again.

All around her, folk got on with the business of living, and Éowyn too, was far from idle. After Théoden King's death, Aragorn and his new Queen departed for Minas Tirith, taking Faramir, Prince of Ithilien with them.

If Éowyn thought to have time for herself to settle back into a quiet routine, she was sorely mistaken. Éomer, newly crowned, had decided to wed, and wed swiftly for he found much to his dismay, that he could not bear to be parted from the Princess of Dol Amroth and so set a date for a Yule wedding. Éowyn threw herself body and soul, into preparing Meduseld for her brother's nuptials.

During the busy months that followed, Faramir wrote often and Éowyn waited expectantly for messengers out of Minas Tirith. She found she sorely missed their long talks and was always swift with a reply. Soon, a steady stream of messengers traversed the leagues between Rohan and the White City. Yet letters alone were a poor substitute. More and more often, Éowyn would catch herself turning expectantly at the sound of a voice similar in timbre to Faramir's, only to be disappointed.

As excited, as Éowyn was about Éomer's approaching nuptials, the true reason for the tripping of her heart was due to one thing alone Faramir was coming to the wedding.

And so it was that love came at last to the White Lady of Rohan. It did not come as a thunderbolt from the skies, nor did it come as any startling revelation. Rather it came softly, silently, on cat's paws, curling around her heart and warming her soul.

At twilight on Yule Eve, King Elessar, Queen Arwen and their entourage arrived at Edoras for Éomer King's nuptials. Leaping from his horse, Faramir swept Éowyn into his arms and kissed her before all.

"Now wilt thou love me, Lady of the Shield-arm, and be my Princess of Ithilien?"

"Aye," Éowyn laughed, glad tears falling, "I will love thee, my Prince, now and forever."

A cry went up and Aragorn clapped Éomer on the back. "Now shall it be your task to plan a wedding, my friend."

Faramir held Éowyn close as if he would never release her. "Are you sure about this, my love?" he whispered for her ears alone.

"Never have I been more sure of anything," she laughed, "though loath am I to admit the Elf was right."

"Then forever shall I sing praises to Elven foresight!" Faramir said before again kissing his bride to be.

The End


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